


Genera Ferarum Chori

by superfluouspaperclip



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Hybrids, Mild Gore, This does actually have a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superfluouspaperclip/pseuds/superfluouspaperclip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barely recovered from battle, with a missing medic and rampant piracy, the Reds and Blues are struggling to prepare for Charon’s attack. But Chorus’s jungle hides many unexpected dangers. Dangers which could change their lives forever. Hybrid!AU inspired by happyfunballxd's art on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Calm Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to, and including, season 12. Also, as this is an AU, I’ve decided that with all the promotions the various members of the BGC were given in season 12, Donut has also been promoted to Lieutenant.

The subdued shimmer of stars above did little to illuminate the sandy path up the cliff. The slow pounding of waves against the rocks below masked the light treads of footsteps, and Nagy was silently grateful that this godforsaken planet had at least one moon to provide tides, however shitty. The shaded party prowled swiftly upwards towards the only manmade structure within a mile radius: an illuminated concrete balcony, part of a crumbling collection of white concrete buildings that stuck out perilously over the cliff edge.

Nagy held his fist up, and, even in the dim lighting, his pack halted. A slight shuffle, lost in the wind, and he felt Zhang’s small hand on his shoulder pad.

“What’s the plan?” Zhang asked.

“We’re goin’ in, o’ course,” Nagy responded.

“And what? Just ask them for the goods?”

Nagy grinned at his second-in-command, “You wound me, Zhangy. Such lack o’ faith.” He faced his crew again, snapping his fingers in the air, before pointing at the two burliest men and jerking his chin towards an open door six feet away, from which light and raucous conversation spewed. “Ibañez, Cohen, those assholes seem like they’re havin’ a good time. Wonder how good a time they’ll be havin’ if all those doors were blocked? An’ Lunde,” a pig-nosed girl looked up, “that power box over there would look so much better were it out o’ order.”

A swift nod each, and the three pirates were on their way.

“An’ that, Lady Zhang,” Nagy smirked, throwing his arm around the disgruntled woman, “is how you ask for goods.”

 

* * *

 

Splash.

Pitter-patter.

Splash.

The rain, carried in by the moist breezes of the surrounding rainforest, pooled beneath the third-story window in Reconnaissance Room No. 2 of the Armonia Centre for Peace and Governance. The shrill cry of Chorus’ birds pierced through the window, and the coolness of the afternoon breeze – relieving after the morning heat – swept through the blue AI perched before the computer, stirring the printouts scattered on the desk.

“Oi, asshole, you found him yet!”

Church groaned, turning to face the dark skinned man in the doorway, “Shouldn’t you be resting.”

“Nah,” Tucker shrugged ( _with no obvious signs of pain_ , Delta’s voice noted), “Dr Gray released me.”

“Hmm,” a spring of concern relaxed inside Church’s holographic gut. “Fine, but if you kneel over, I’m not gonna help.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, jackass,” Tucker dropped into one of the dozen chairs strewn around the monitors and adjusted his t-shirt. “Now did you find that magenta bastard?”

“Yeah, I think so. We’ve got the signal narrowed down to a two-mile radius. According to the maps Carolina wrangled out of Doyle, that good-for-nothing medic has only been sixteen miles outside Armonia this entire time.”

“Figures,” Tucker stretched, hands cupping behind his head. “So when are we leaving?”

“’We’? Since when do you care about Doc?”

“Since I had to put up with Donut fucking whinging nonstop for the last two weeks. You know he painted Dr Gray’s office yellow. Dr-fucking-Gray’s. Said it was relaxing or some shit. I’m surprised she didn’t chop his balls off.”

“Did he have any in the first place?”

“Harsh, dude. But from that, I say either his balls are the size of Chorus, or his brain’s the size of a pebble.”

“Silly, Tucker. Chorus is a planet. All planets are balls.”

“What? Caboose!” Tucker spun in his seat to face the cobalt-armoured captain engulfing the entrance. “What are _you_ doing here?”

His fellow Blue continued, concernedly, “Though a ball the size of Chorus would be very difficult to play baseball with.”

Church groaned, “Forget it, Caboose. Now why are you here?”

“The nice blue lady – the blue lady, not the Blue lady, but there aren’t any nice Blue ladies, except for that one, but she was yellow and-“

“We get it.”

“Well, the nice blue lady came to the mess hall, and she pointed to me, and Simmons, and Grif, and the Colonel Sergeant, and she told us to come here, and so we came here, but she didn’t tell us why, so now I’m standing in the door.”

“Wait,” Tucker asked, “are the others with you?”

“Yes, we are, so you can now stop spreading your dirty Blue secrets and let us in,” a Sothern accent grumbled from behind Caboose’s armoured figure.

Caboose shuffled into the room, stopping besides Church with a muttered comment about “supporting his best friend,” revealing the Reds. Sarge filed in first, blue eyes squinting suspiciously at his Blue comrades, and was followed by Simmons, whose hands – as always when not contained in thick armour gauntlets – tugged at his ginger curls. Grif slumped into the first seat he saw, kicked his sandaled feet onto a monitor, and wiggled his tan toes.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense,” the Hawaiian countered in drawling sarcasm, ”if the Blues _were_ telling secrets, to stay outside and listen in without them seeing us.”

Sarge huffed, “Of course not, idiot. I only believe what I can see with my own eyes. How am I meant to see the Blue’s secrets if I can’t see the Blues?”

“Right, of course. Sorry for ever questioning you superhuman, secret-detecting senses, sir.”

“Good. Don’t ever do it again.”

“Gentlemen, if we could please start the meeting.”

Despite the relative co-operation between the Federal Army and the New Republic, Vanessa Kimball was still dressed in full combat armour. The sheer blue visor might have been daunting to Chorus’ few remaining civilians, who clung to the remains of once bustling cities like scared children to their parent’s legs. But Church had been in the military his entire existence (wasn’t that depressing), and had long since learned to differentiate which slight tilt and soft breath meant happiness, and which meant you should increase the density of your crotch plating. Mind you, these were often the same.

“Oi, Kimball,” he said, “you call them all here to annoy me, or is there actually a reason I have to deal with these cockbites today?”

“I thought you had news for them, Church. Carolina tells me you have identified the location of Medic DuFresne.”

The agent in question had joined Kimball, along with Wash and Donut. Fully dressed in turquoise armour, Carolina took one trained sweep of the room and marched up to the main computer readouts, while Wash – dressed in loose pants and a grey singlet – took one trained sweep of the room and collapsed in the seat next to Tucker. Donut bounded towards Church, his scarred face lively without the shadows which had been pulling at his eyes and mouth for the past few months. Seeing the blond return to his old cheerfulness warmed Church’s holographic heart, and fostered a growing nausea in the AI’s chest. Because, seriously, when did he start caring for fucking _Donut_?

Forcing himself to consider Kimball’s question and not the manner in which Reconnaissance Room No. 2 had suddenly been taken over by multi-coloured soldiers, Church answered, “Ah, yeah. The cube’s teleportation signal ends at coordinates 24.9ºS, 01.56ºW. According to the Feds maps, some facility was built at that point, but I can’t find any details.”

Carolina glanced up from tracing the outlines of printed digits with one finger, “What do you mean you can’t find any details?”

“I dunno,” Church snapped. “The Fed maps label the area ‘Minerva Facility’, but I can’t find any record of a ‘Minerva Facility’. No date of opening. No record of activity, or list of employees. For all I know it could be a secret strip club for Federation generals.”

Kimball glanced at the AI, surprised, “Really, you can’t find anything?”

“Nada.”

“Strange, when I was young Minerva was quite an active medical research centre. My school went on a trip there, and had a full guided tour. Though, this was before the war.”

The awkward pause that settled after Kimball’s words didn’t deter Donut, enthralled in the thought of rescuing his – Friend? Lover? Church hadn’t really been able to figure out what exactly the relationship between the pink lieutenant and the purple medic was. Maybe it was because he just didn’t care. “So that means you know how to get there, right?” Donut asked, excitedly.

“Um, yes, Lieutenant Donut,” Kimball turned her helmeted head towards the hyperactive blond. “If my memory’s correct, we took a ferry down the Arpa River. It took a couple of hours.”

“Well then,” Donut bounced back on his heels, “what are we waiting for. Let’s go!”

“Wait a minute, Donut,” Sarge glared at his subordinate. “I’m not going anywhere for that goddamn medic.”

“Oh, but Sarge~ I need you! How would I ever achieve the climax of my mission if not for your robust, masculine assistance?”

It was rare for the boisterous Red commander to be so obviously perturbed, and not for the first time, Church wondered if Donut spoke like that on purpose.

“Well what about Grif and Simmons, surely they can help you reach your, ah, climax?”

Simmons spluttered on his own breath, “Don’t encourage him, sir!”

But Donut’s attention had already shifted, “Really, Simmons, will you and Grif come?”

“Ah,” one glance at those hopeful eyes, and Simmons relented, “sure.”

“Oi, don’t choose for me, dickhead,” came the grumble from the far seat. “I was going to have a nap this afternoon.”

“But Grif,” Donut whined, “you have a nap every afternoon. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“The same place as Caboose’s brain and Sarge’s youth: it never existed.”

Caboose looked up at the mention of his name, head tilted like a questioning puppy, while Wash frowned. “Grif,” the ex-Freelancer declared, “you’re coming with us.”

The Hawaiian just sighed and slouched further into his chair as Donut squealed. “You’re all coming?” he gasped.

Tucker glanced at Wash and Caboose, then shrugged. “It’s not like we’ve got anything better to do,” he said.

Wash nodded, “It would be nice to see more of Chorus without worrying about an attack.”

“And I,” Church crossed his arms decisively, and was immediately frustrated when his small size limited the effect, “am going to set off all the alarms in the surrounding mile if I stay in this shithole of a centre for any longer. Besides, someone’s got to keep this idiot from almost dying again,” he jerked his thumb at Tucker.

Carolina laughed softly, “Seems like it’ll be a busy trip. I wonder if Doc will really want to see us.”

“Actually, Carolina,” Kimball addressed the turquoise soldier, “I have another task I need from you. This morning I received a call from the Cynos Sea base. At about nine last night, they were raided by a group of pirates. It seems like sending more troops to hold the bases against raids isn’t working, so I was thinking that it might be better to send one exceptional soldier who can investigate the situation themselves. Would you be up to it?”

Carolina paused, and Church could almost see the mental clogs systematically shifting to fit the new information. “Of course,” she said. “All that infiltration practice has to go somewhere.”

“Great,” Kimball beamed through her visor.

“Are you sure, Carolina?” Church pipped up. “Sure you’re ready to handle a mission on your own? No helpful blue training wheels to save you when you fall on your ass.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she smirked, “I have to take them off sometime. Besides, they were pretty unstable, I’ve had to get used to falling on my ass.”

“Okay,” Tucker interrupted. “I usually encourage flirting, but that was just awkward. Can we go, because I’m already feeling nauseous?”

Kimball nodded, “Right, meeting dismissed.”

Quickly, Reconnaissance Room No. 2 was cleared of people. All except Caboose, who was trying, and failing, to stay still while Church moved to his armour’s AI storage unit.

“You’re excited,” Church commented, when his hologram had settled above the Blue’s shoulder.

“Of course!” Caboose cried. “We’re going on a trip with Lt. Sugar-bun! It’s going to be so great! We can have a picnic by a river, and there’ll be so much candy! Oh, I better make sure to pack my toothbrush!”

And with that revelation, he loped off towards his apartment, Church trailing through the air behind him.


	2. Curiosity Created the Cat

“Are we sure this is it?” Grif asked as the small ferry ploughed towards the bank. “There’s nothing out here.”

The Hawaiian was right. Green jungle extended as far as the eye could see, a curtain of green shades. Even the riverbank was obscured by the roots that ran through the ground and tumbled into the swirling blue of the Arpa River. To the Reds and Blues crew, used to the dry Gulch weather, the humidity was smothering.

“Okay, this is getting stupid,” Tucker declared, unsealing his helmet and tossing it to the deck, “I can’t breathe in that thing. And Grif’s right, there’s nothing here. You fucked up the calculations, didn’t you?”

“No I didn’t,” Church snapped, tiny arms crossed over tiny chest. “No one’s used this place in years. You think it’s going to be all nicely swept clean for your arrival?”

“Okay, calm down” Wash spoke, as the ferry sloshed to a stop besides a rundown pier. “According to Church’s calculations the Minerva Facility is in there.” He gestured towards a path, sealed with caramel tiles, but now so overgrown with weeds it with impossible to distinguish it from the green foliage it lead into.

“Well then,” Donut was unperturbed, “what are we waiting for!”

And with that statement, the pink soldier clambered over the gangway and down onto the pier, begrudging followed by his comrades.

Wash sighed and gave a nod of thanks towards Lee, the old ferryman who had carried them. “We’ll send to Kimball when we need a pick up,” he said.

Lee smiled his crooked smile, “Feel free to take your time. I don’t live that far from here, so it’s no problem to pick you up when you need me. Good luck finding this Doc fella of yours!” And with a final wave to the Reds and Blues, the ferry putted back the way it came.

 

* * *

 

“So-o,” Tucker mumbled, pushing a branch out of his way. It swung back and smacked Simmons in the chin, “Creepy abandoned path leading to creepy abandoned facility. Doc’s definitely on extra Caboose babysitting duty for this.”

“I don’t understand,” the Blue in question said. “Why would Doc be sitting on a baby?” The rest of the group ignored him.

“There isn’t any damn sign of human civilization ‘sides this path,” Sarge grumbled.

“Uh, that’s not quite true, sir,” Simmons piped up. “There was a dry canal which lead into the Arpa near where we landed. Obviously man-made.”

“Great,” Grif muttered, “a dirt path and a dried canal. We’re truly in the heart of human society,” he paused. “Hey, where’s Donut?”

“He went ahead,” Simmons answered.

Sarge nodded proudly, “Ah, such determination to assist his fellow soldier. You could learn something from these actions today, Grif.”

“You didn’t even want to come!” the Hawaiian cried.

All conversation halted as loud footsteps on fallen leaves crunched around the curve to the right. The well-engraved survival instinct inside Sarge and Wash prompted the two soldiers to reach for their primary firearms.

“Hey, guys,” Donut’s helmet popped into view, “there’s something you really need to see.”

Sarge relaxed his grip on his shotgun, “Damn it, Lieutenant! This better be worth it.”

And it was.

In front of them, pushing back the branches on the right and literally cutting the tree trunk on the left, was an opaque barrier. Its shimmering surface curved up into the canopy so gradually that none of the multi-coloured soldiers could see how far it reached.

“Is Doc behind that?” Simmons squeaked.

“I think so,” Wash replied.

“That wasn’t on the maps,” Church defended his research. “Though,” he added, “according to the co-ordinates, Minerva’s in there.”

Unsurprisingly, Caboose was the only one in the group untroubled by the discovery of a giant dome shield. “If Doc’s in there, then let’s go get Doc!” he cried, and strolled directly through the barrier.

Or tried to. As soon as the cobalt captain touched the fluid surface, he jumped backwards as if electrocuted, tumbling to the floor with a loud cry, “Ouchy!”

Wash frowned, “That wall was not intended to be breached. I doubt it will allow anyone in.”

“Bow Chicka Bow Wow,” Tucker said, but even he seemed distracted.

“Really, Tucker?” Wash sighed.

“So that’s it?” Grif asked hopefully. “Can we go home now?”

Sarge shook his head and held his fist against his chest in what was obviously supposed to be a dramatic action. “No way will the Red team be stopped by a mere wall. We will save our comrade from this devious entrapment!”

“Save your comrade?” Church cried, unknowingly echoing Grif’s earlier comment. “Dude, you didn’t even want to come in the first place.”

“At least I didn’t miss basic details of our mission. Is this wall some Blue trap of yours?”

“Blue trap? We’re not at war, you senile old man. How many times does this have to be explained to you!”

And as Church and Sarge descended into arguing, their comrades felt all confidence for their mission dwindle away.

 

* * *

 

 

Sarge reached above his head, cracked his knuckles and glared at the shimmering barrier in front of him. “No way a damn wall is going to force me to retreat."

“Um, Sergeant,” Caboose’s unusually subdued words came from behind the Red leader, “Church wants to say something.”

“He’s said an awful lot, son.”

A sigh, and suddenly the blue AI was hovering in front of his face, “I know, I’m sorry.” The words were awkward, as if forced through clenched teeth, but a note of truth ran through them, which was enough for Sarge. You didn’t live as long as he had in the military without learning to forgive and forget your comrades. Except if they were Grif. Sarge wished he knew how to forget Grif.

“Accepted,” the old soldier grumbled.

Church flashed back to Caboose’s shoulder, while Sarge leant to inspect the surface of the barrier around Minerva Facility. The grass on the other side blurred and wobbled in the morning sunlight, which could only mean…

“A Projected Atomic Frequency Container, eh?” the colonel muttered. “Well, there’s one way to disable that.”

“And what's that?” Caboose was much more happy now that his two friends had reconciled.

“Shoot it,” Sarge declared, and marched off into the undergrowth.

“You’re just going to shoot a giant bubble shield and hope it somehow goes away?” Church cried, as Caboose jogged to keep up.

“Of course not, moron. I’m goin’ to shoot the thing projecting the giant bubble shield. It has to be around somewhere.”

For about fifteen minutes, the three soldiers followed the spherical edge through the bushes. Church was just about ready to suggest they re-evaluate their plan and start searching elsewhere, when Caboose all but fell over a concrete bunker, half sunk into the jungle mud.

“Ah, see,” Sarge said, pushing at the rusted door, “this looks right.”

There was very little inside. Grey walls, illuminated by the blue numbers of computer panels, and a dusty floor, split in half by a large dish embedded in the ground. The dome barrier divided the space, flowing out in gradually curving rings from the centre of the dish, cracking the concrete structure which might have contained it.

“What is it?” Caboose asked.

“It’s a projecting dish,” Church answered. “You need one to create a PAFC. Part of the whole ‘Projected’ thing. But,” this time he addressed Sarge who was inspecting the dish, “you’d need about three dishes to maintain a shield of this size.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the Red announced, pulling his shotgun out and cocking.

The loud bang of repeated shotgun bullets smashing through metal rippled through the room, and by the time Sarge stopped to reload, the base of the dish lay in pieces. Caboose and Church just stood and watched as – without the dish to support it – the great dome flickered.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, do you think Doc’s okay in there?” it was lucky for Donut’s nails that he was wearing a helmet.

“Mysterious glowing shield preventing anything from entering or leaving? I’m sure he’s doing just fine,” Grif scoffed, but sighed as Donut’s face fell. “Hey, don’t get all mopey, we don’t even know if Doc’s in there anyway.”

“Yeah, don’t lose heart yet, Donut. This whole expedition could have been for nothing,” Simmons added from his seat on a large rock, helmet in hand. The visor had been sparking worryingly ever since Tucker had wacked a branch into it on the path.

“I guess your right,” Donut smiled. “Being a gloomy gum-drop won’t help anyone.”

BANG!

Grif, Simmons and Donut jumped as the sound rattled the trees and stirred the Arpa where it greeted them on the riverbank.

“What the fuck was that?” Grif shouted.

Simmons shook his head, gazing into the obscurity of the jungle. “Whatever it is,” he said, “it came from somewhere in there.”

Donut was on his feet and into the jungle before either Simmons or Grif could react.

“Donut, wait!” Simmons threw himself after his lightish-red companion, pushing through the undergrowth. He could hear Grif’s heavy footsteps pounding against the damp mud behind him, but the maroon soldier was too busy concentrating on the pink armour in front of him and the rocky ground unbalancing his flat arches. In his flurry, tree roots caught at his ankles, their little finger branches hooking around his armour’s plating and tugging at his feet.

Suddenly, the ground dropped beneath him. Simmons stretched out his arms, mentally preparing for the squelch of mud to hit his hands, but the ginger kept falling. And falling. Falling until his face was submerged in dirty water and his shoulder smacked against the concrete canal.

 _I thought the canal was fucking dry!_ Simmons cried in his head as he tried to stand up. But the smooth floor was slippery and he landed face-first back in the water.

 _Gah,_ without his helmet on, it was easy to accidently swallow the liquid, _that tastes awful._

It seemed Donut took pity on him after his third failure to stand, as the lieutenant grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him out with a grunt.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked.

Simmons nodded from his kneeled over stance beside the canal.

“Wh-why the fuck did you take off like that?” Simmons gasped.

“Like what?”

“Like a fucking startled bird!”

“There was a shot,” Donut did seem appropriately abashed, “someone might be in danger.”

Simmons raised an eyebrow, “And you’re just going to run directly towards it?”

“Come on, Simmons! What if it was Sarge?”

Well, that was concerning, “You don’t think it was, do you?”

Donut glanced at him, expectantly, and Simmons sighed. His feet were still shaky, but perfectly capable of holding him, and as he stood, wringing out his hair, he couldn’t help but wonder if he really was so sycophantic that he obeyed even _Donut_.

The two men walked towards the jungle and stared into the green.

“Do you remember which way that noise came from?” Simmons asked.

“Ah yeah. I think so.” Donut said.

“You _think_? Not convincing.”

“Simmons, you should really take a risk now and then, it’s good for your health.”

“According to which doctor?”

“Come on, this way!”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

 

* * *

 

It hadn't taken long before Simmons and Donut had found the concrete bunker they were presently standing in. Imbedded in one wall were blue computer panels that monitored the activity of the large dish which sat in the middle of the floor.

“What the heck is this thing?” Donut asked, awed.

“According to these readouts,” Simmons answered, taking in the monitors, “that’s the thing creating the shield. Or one of three things.”

Unbeknownst to either Red, they had found the sister bunker of the one their Blood Gulch comrades had found twenty minutes earlier.

“Wait, does that mean…” Donut wondered. “Simmons, can you turn the shield off?”

“Ah, yeah, I guess.”

Simmons turned to the monitors, finger flying across the touch screens with the easy practice of long high school lunches alone with his best friend, laptop. Donut inspected the dish, noting that the barrier appeared weaker than before, but Simmons was so caught up in his work that he didn’t even comment.

“Got it!” Simmons yelled gleefully into the monitors. “The barrier should be down. There’s nothing to prevent us entering Minerva, or anyone leav-.”

An electronic hum and a loud bang, followed by Donut’s cry, cut the Dutch-Irish man off.

“D-Donut?” he asked. His voice shook in his throat, and his knees shook in his boots. Simmons tried to swallow and turn around, but fear had grabbed hold of his chest and nothing seemed to work right.

Another whirling hum.

BANG!

 

* * *

 

The croaks of piafiorns – a native Chorus cross between a frog and a monkey – accompanied Grif, Tucker and Wash in their relatively amicable walk through the trees.

“-Assholes ran off without me,” Grif finished, ending his rant about Simmons and Donut.

Tucker smirked, “Are you sure they ran out without you, or your lazy ass just couldn’t keep up?”

Grif responded with a raised finger.

Wash often wished he could learn to ignore the Red’s and Blue’s bickering. “That noise you heard must have been the barrier shutting down,” he said in a futile effort to save what remained of the previous conversation and his sanity.

“No shit,” Tucker responded. “Half an hour ago, this area didn’t exist,” he gestured to the jungle path which had previously been enclosed, before realising how tense his fellow Blue seemed. “What are you worrying about?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Wash responded coyly.

“Bullshit,” Tucker said. “You’re always worrying. Now spill.”

“Well,” the grey soldier stared at the ground, as if hoping for his answers to be written there, “did it ever occur to you that whoever set up this barrier must have had a reason? PAFC’s aren’t cheap, you know. Maybe, we shouldn’t be trying to open it.”

“What?” Grif yawned. “What the heck is a PA-whatever?”

Tucker nodded, “Yeah dude, calm down. It’ll be alright. We’ll go in, grab Doc, and get back to Kimball before the afternoon storm hits.”

But Wash wasn’t paying much attention to his friend. Instead, he was gazing over the captain’s shoulder.

“Since when did the canal start flowing?” he asked. Pushing past Tucker, he knelt beside the pipe, and leaned over the murky water as if analysing its chemical composition with his eyes.

Tucker shot a look to Grif, _This is what I have to deal with_.

 _Wow, sucks to be you,_ Grif sent back.

Tucker rolled his eyes and joined Wash in his river gazing.

“And you say you’re not paranoid,” Tucker said. “You’re literally freaking out over spilled water.”

“Tucker” Wash was tense, “I don’t think I’m paranoid enough.”

And one of these days, Tucker was going to test to see if Wash was actually physic, because at his words, Grif let out a cry and an arm hit Tucker in the back, plunging him into the brown canal. Water swirled over his head, spinning out his dreadlocks, as his armour dragged him down to the bottom of the canal. Five feet of water that definitely hadn’t been there this morning shimmered above him, and, as his open mouth filled, he saw Wash’s distorted form fall to the bank, a shadow on his back. For a second, Tucker believed he could see a flash of dark fur reaching through the water towards him, but the vision faded as black claws stretched over his mind.

 

* * *

 

Raindrops pounded against the tin roof like marching soldiers, filling up the gutters and running down the pillars that lined the corridor. General Donald Doyle, rushing down the pathway, shivered as the cool breeze swept away the midday humidity. Yet so engrossed was he in his work that he failed to notice Kimball step out into the hallway, stretching her neck and glaring at the rain.

“Ah, Kimball,” Doyle said, narrowly avoiding tumbling over his counterpart, “there you are. Have you, by any chance, seen Agent Carolina?”

Kimball smirked, amused by his fluster, and pointedly answered, “I asked Carolina to look into the pirate problem your men were unable to contain in Cynos Sea.”

Ah, now that was awkward, “Yes, that… that’s quite an issue. Pirates, I mean,” Doyle coughed. “Good thing Carolina’s on the case, eh? Ah, you wouldn’t happen to know where Washington is then?

Kimball stared out into the rain, “Church traced their medic to that research centre. The Minerva Facility. You remember it, right? Seems everyone’s forgotten. Anyway, the Reds and Blues have gone off to bring the medic back to Armonia.”

 _What?_ “Ah, correct me if I’m wrong, but did you just say that they were going to the Minerva Facility.”

Kimball shrugged, “That’s what they said.”

The hair on Doyle’s neck stood up, his forehead pounded, and for a second, the man regretted eating those oysters at lunch. His stomach had never felt so queasy. “Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Minerva…” he licked his lips. “Minerva was forgotten on purpose.”

“What do you mean? Wait, are you telling me The Federation tried to destroy Minerva?”

Doyle shook his sweating head.

“It wasn’t destruction,” he croaked. “It was quarantine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late, life has been extraordinarily busy lately, and this chapter was a bitch to write. I’m still not happy with it, but it has to come out sometime. Also, due to the aforementioned life being really busy, it will probably be several weeks until the next chapter is out. But don’t worry, I’m not giving up on this series yet!


	3. Bad Things Come in Threes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in order to compensate for how long it's been between updates, I present both Chapter 3 AND Chapter 4, as well as a slight edit of Chapter 2. Also, you might be interested to know that I've planned the full fic, which will probably be about 30 chapters. We're in it for the long run!

“State your name, soldier.”

White shapes blurred through Caboose’s eyelids. His stomach grumbled in an attempt to push itself out his throat. _No, no, I’m going to be sick! And then there’ll be sick in my helmet! I’m going to die in sick in my helmet!_

“Please don’t let me die in my helmet!” Caboose squeaked, eyelids jerking open straight into the gaze of a large, hairy man in a grey armoured uniform leaning over him. _Very hairy_ , Caboose amended. _He’s a super hairy monkey man._

A sweet laugh, definitely not from the man, washed through Caboose’s ears. “Don’t fear, you’re not wearing a helmet.”

Caboose twisted as far as he could with his hands tied to see a woman sitting on a plastic chair in a corner of the small room. She tapped a grey and purple armoured boot against the tiles, but met Caboose’s gaze with a smile.

“I do seem to not be wearing my helmet,” Caboose said slowly. “But sometimes I see weird even when I’m wearing my helmet.”

“Really?” she asked. “And what do you see weird at the moment?”

“I’ve never seen a girl with ears like yours,” he confessed. “None of the girls on the moon had them. Maybe they do on Chorus. I will have to look more at the ears of girls on Chorus.”

The woman laughed again ( _She is a very happy person_ , Caboose decided), reaching up to lightly touch the black-furred tips which sprung through the dark curls on either side of her head.

“Well that’s… considerate. I guess it is a Chorus thing,” her smile slipped. “Now, what’s your name, sweetie, and why where you running around the jungle?”

Caboose shook his head. Her words worsened his headache and he wished she would just stop speaking. “My head hurts…”

She shot him an odd look. “Oo-kay,” the word was spread out into two syllables. “Grant,” she addressed the monkey man still leaning over Caboose’s chair, “you do it.”

“Your name, soldier,” the man, who Caboose assumed was called Grant, growled. Unless the lady had been calling him Grant. But that was silly because he was Caboose, not Grant.

Oh, but she didn’t know that, right? That’s why she was asking. You should ask when you want something, that’s what Wash had said when he tried to use their remaining rations to make Freckles’ hat. Ask politely, of course. Was waking someone up when their head hurt polite? It didn’t sound polite.

“Soldier,” Grant continued gruffly, “if you don’t want to answer, we have methods to convince you.”

“It’s true,” the lady pipped up. “For the sake of your fingernails, I’d start talking.”

“My fingernails?” Caboose’s vision was blurry and he didn’t know why. “What would you do with my fingernails?”

“We’ll pull them out,” she responded frankly.

“But-” His stomach threatened to push itself out his mouth again. “But that would hurt!”

“Yep,” she nodded, “it would. So if you would please start talking.”

Caboose’s heart seemed to want to join his stomach, “I don’t want to hurt. Why do you want me hurt, happy lady?”

The woman frowned. “I don’t want you hurt,” she spoke slowly. We just want you to answer our questions, but we will hurt you if you don’t. Understand?”

No, no, he didn’t understand. Why was she so blurry? Why was the room so blurry? Where was he? He had been with Sarge. And Church. Where was Church? Did he leave? He promised he wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye again.

“Kali,” Grant muttered to the woman, “I don’t think he’s capable of answering.”

Caboose squinted at the light, hoping to clear his blurry vision, but it only worsened his dizziness. Shifting in his seat, he encountered another problem. _My hands don’t move. Why don’t my hands move?_

And at that it all became too much, and whatever survival instincts were barely supressed in Caboose’s head reared forward. _Run away! Run away!_

The blue soldier lurched onto his feet, feeling only a slight tug of resistance, took one step and tumbled over under the weight of the unyielding board stretched across his back. A chair. He was tied to a chair.

Caboose’s last memory before blacking out was the grey eyes of the monkey man wide in shock as he dealt with the six-foot, armoured Blue who had stumbled and fallen into his chest.

 

* * *

 

“Come on. If you’d just tell us your name and why you’re here, we’ll stop all this unpleasantness.”

Wash glared at the woman looking absolutely bored in her corner seat, “I don’t believe you.”

She rolled her shoulders, “You’re sounding rather childish, soldier. That’s probably not a good way to be in your position.”

Wash didn’t respond. Partially because he had no good response to give, and partially because Grant had just applied claricelli juice (“Like a lemon,” the women had happily informed Wash, “but it grows better in the jungle and is three times as acidic.”) into the new cuts precisely slashed into his arms, curtesy of Grant’s knife.

The woman just sighed and tapped her chin, contemplating Wash’s pain, before a smile broke at the edges of her lips.

 _Oh no_ , Wash thought, _what now?_

“At least he’s doing better than the other one,” she said casually to her lackey.

Wash could feel his eyes widening, “What?”

“Yeah,” she continued, “you’re not the first one we had in here, Mr Mystery Guy. There was another yesterday. Do you know him? Six-foot, dark hair, blue eyes. Sprawled all over Grant, that was funny.”

Wash spluttered. The description was too familiar. “You had Caboose in here?”

She raised an eyebrow, “Caboose? Really? He certainly lives up to his name."

"What did you do to him?” for the first time, he truly didn’t notice the pain in his arms.

“Nothing,” she replied, “he didn’t seem to understand anything we said, and fell unconscious when he tried to escape. We put him back in the holding cell.”

“He tried to escape?”

“Yeah. The chair wasn’t bolted down like it should have been. I would have checked it myself beforehand, but, you know,” she shrugged, “I was busy. Now enough about me, are you still insisting that you know nothing, including you own name?”

Outrage burned at the back of Wash’s throat, “Are you still insisting on kidnapping my colleagues and me, imprisoning us for over 24 hours without food or water – which is frankly inhumane – _and_ commanding your lackey over here to torture us for information?”

As if to accent his complaint, said brutish lackey cut another long slash into Wash’s forearm, quickly applying the claricelli juice while the Blue unwillingly shuddered at the caustic pain.

The lady groaned in response and slid back down into her seat, accompanied by the clang of full body armour, sans helmet. “Okay,” she said, “firstly, Grant isn’t my lackey. We’re simply individuals in similar situations. Secondly, while those are all good reasons to be angry, getting angry isn’t going to help you much.”

Wash snorted through clenched teeth, “I think I can live with it if it’s not helping you much either.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Grant, stop.” The man glanced at her – perhaps with surprise, Wash couldn’t read him well – but acquiesced the lady’s instruction. “Now Soldier Stoic,” she continued, “let’s make a deal. You ask me a question, which I have to answer, then I can ask you a question, which you have to answer. Truthfully. It’ll be like a game of 20 questions, only with less sex stories.”

_God, could this woman be any more condescending?_

“Fine then,” Wash spat, “my turn. How about you tell me why a PAFC was set up around an abandoned research centre. Or better yet, tell me what some woman with a like for animal appendage headbands is doing running around the jungle with Freelancer level camouflage equipment.”

His words left a long pause.

Which was abruptly disrupted by Grant’s question, “What is Freelancer level?”

The woman didn’t answer. Instead she glared at Wash, her strangely slitted eyes burning with the first extreme emotion he had seen from her. “We’ve been wasting our time, he won’t tell us anything,” she spat to Grant, before addressing her prisoner again. “You said you wanted food and water, agent? Fine. Perhaps you’ll be able to answer some of your questions yourself."

 

* * *

 

Simmons rasped into his shoulder and shivered against the back wall of the cell. The room had once been fully furnished, if the flattened marks on the worn carpet were any indicator, but all that had been taken away to be left with only one cot, which Donut had collapsed into after being dragged back from his friendly dose of investigations and threats yesterday evening. Despite Simmons’ coughing and his aching muscles which had kept him from sleeping all night, the blond soldier had yet to wake.

Grif was slumped at the end of the bed, also asleep. Apparently, he had been caught with Wash and Tucker after they had split up in the forest. Why the Hawaiian had been thrown into their cell and where Wash and Tucker had been taken, Simmons didn’t know, but he was glad to see the orange soldier nonetheless. Not that he’d ever admit it, the guy was obnoxious enough already.

There were four soft beeps as the keypad code for the door was pressed. A woman, not much more than a girl, heavily set and dressed in a long medical gown, shuffled in balancing a tray packed with cutlery on one arm.

“Hmm,” she muttered to herself, brushing her escaping ginger locks behind two circular tuffs on the sides of her head ( _Is that her hair?_ Simmons wondered), “where should I put this?”

Ultimately, Simmons was more concerned with what she was carrying. He hadn’t eaten in days and, for once, his hunger overcame his cleanliness. “Is that food?”

“Oh,” the woman looked up, noticing the maroon soldier for the first time. “You’re awake.” She blinked and then giggled, “And yes, it is food. Apparently, some of our other guests were complaining about our service. And we can’t have you all dying of hunger. So here’s breakfast!”

Simmons looked at her with mild incredulity. “’Guests’?” he squeaked.

“Yes, well, I suppose the circumstances aren’t great,” she frowned gently, “but you are sleeping in our beds.”

She shrugged her shoulders, nearly spilling the contents of the tray over herself, before placing the food on the carpet near Simmons. She glanced over towards Donut and Grif. “Do you think your friends will be waking up soon?” she asked.

Simmons went to speak but his words devolved into coughs, and all he could do was shake of his head.

“Ah,” the lady said, “that’s unfortunate. I’m under strict instructions to stay while you three eat. If they don’t wake up soon, then they’ll have no breakfast. Anyway,” she shook her head and passed Simmons a glass from the tray, “here, have some water. It’ll help that cough.”

“Uh, thanks,” Simmons rasped. The woman continued unpacking the food, passing Simmons a spoon and a bowl filled with… something. Simmons poked it.

“Well then,” the woman leaned against the wall opposite the cot and smiled down at Simmons, “if we’re going to be spending some time together, we should at least know each other’s names, right? I’m Candace.”

“I’m Simmons. I mean Dick. Uh, I mean…” Why a girl? And when he was so used to only being referred to by his surname, too.

Candace giggled, “Nice to meet you, Dick Simmons. And don’t wait on me. Eat up before it gets cold!”

Simmons gazed into the brown gloop in the bowl. “Um… What is this?”

“Porridge.” Simmons took a bite out of it and gagged. Bitter and tasteless. Oh well, he’d had worse.

“Hey, Simmons, who’s the new girl?”

“Donut!”

The blond man sat vaguely upright, rubbing at his right eye. The dark blanket fell over his shoulders like a cape and landed on top of Grif’s head, pocking him in the nose. The Hawaiian snorted.

Said new girl spun around to face him. “Hello, I’m Candace! I’ve brought you breakfast.”

“Hi, I’m Donut!” the blond replied.

Grif cracked an eye open, “Did you say breakfast?”

“Grif,” Simmons snapped, “don’t be rude.”

“Right, right, sorry,” the tanned man stretched upright, rolling his shoulders nonchalantly. “Hello, my name is Dexter Grif. It is a pleasure to meet you, oh wondrous lady. Now, did you say breakfast?”

Candace giggled, picking up the rest of the tray’s contents. “Here you go,” she said.

Grif snatched the bowl out of her hand, immediately gulping down a large scoop. The look on his face a minute later told Simmons that he regretted that action deeply. Donut, meanwhile, took the tray’s contents with significantly more grace, smiling up at Candace as she handed the bowl and glass over.

“Thank you,” Donut chirped. “And I’d just like to say that I love what you’ve done with your hair! Very stylish.”

Candace slipped a finger over the auburn tuffs, “Oh these, why thank you,” she giggled. “Maybe you’ll be able to get your own.”

Donut shook his head sadly. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find a good source of hairspray since Valhalla.” He grinned, “One good thing about helmets, no one can see your bad hair days!"

“I suppose that’s true,” Candace met Donut’s grin with one of her own.

 _Of course_ , Simmons thought, _Donut would get on with the giggling nurse._

“Um, I don’t mean to be rude” Donut continued, looking down into his bowl, “but you wouldn’t happen to have milk or honey for this, would you? Just back on the farm, ma always served porridge with milk and honey. It was really yummy!”

Candace shook her head, “Unfortunately, there’s not many animals here. We did have chickens for some time, but they didn’t make it.”

“No meat! Does that mean no hamburgers?”

Grif looked scandalised. “No hamburgers,” Candace confirmed with a giggle at Grif’s expense. “I’m sorry about your request, Mr Donut.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” the lightish-red soldier smiled. “I’ll just have to wait till Iowa for ma’s cooking.”

The three men ate in silence for a while, accompanied only by the occasional cough from Simmons and Candace’s quiet watching. Her sharp gaze unnerved Simmons, but Grif was too focused on his food to care. Apparently even a “connoisseur” like him cared little about the quality of food after going without for three days. Donut, in contrast, while not guzzling his food down like he was some sort of food waste bin, appeared completely undisturbed by Candace’s presence. Apparently mysterious nurse kidnappers serving breakfast was nothing unusual to him. _Then again_ , Simmons reasoned, _Donut’s probably into it._

Once the Reds had finished their meal, Candace collected the leftover bowls and glasses, piling them back onto the tray. A quick goodbye later, and Simmons, Donut and Grif were left with a single cot and the growing daylight.


	4. What You’ve Been Waiting For

Doc set the bags down with a sigh. There was something very calming about working outdoors.

He turned on the cafeteria tap, rubbing at the dirt caught under his fingernails and in between the folds of the thin webbing that stretched from knuckle to knuckle along his hands. After he had used a towel to gently dry his hands, he shrugged off the large overcoat, cacked in mud from the Chorus’ rain, making sure to gently twist his wings through the slits in the back. When he had first been assigned farming duty, having barely recovered and still struggling to adjust to the extra appendages weighing down on his shoulder blades, he had tugged too hard and torn a gaping hole in the gown. Now he took his time to hang the coat up and gently preen a blue secondary feather back into place, before he set out to find his companions’ dinner preferences.

Minerva’s hallways were dirty and cold. With only four habitants in roughly a decade, there had been little need to keep the entire facility serviced.

 _Though this dust is getting a bit much_ , Doc observed. _I might have a go at cleaning it next week. Wouldn’t want anyone having respiratory problems!_

The lights were on in the executive office where Kali had established her base of operations years ago. The murmur of the other occupants of the Minerva Facility spilled through the open door.

 _Great_ , Doc thought, stepping through the threshold, _they’re all together! That makes things easier._

Grant was leaning against the wall opposite the door, and gave Doc a gruff nod as he entered. Candace gazed over to greet him with her usual blank smile, which he returned. Kali, unsurprisingly, hadn’t noticed his arrival, too busy glaring at the handwritten papers on her desk.

“Damn it!” she exclaimed. “Either these are the best trained soldiers in the galaxy, or we’re dealing with a bunch of morons. And most trained soldiers don’t faint in an interrogation.”

Grant sighed, “Well if they’re morons, they can’t pose any threat.”

Kali shook her head. “Don’t underestimate morons, Grant,” she snarled. “Even the hopeless can occasionally pull miracles out of their ass.”

Doc was mildly nonplussed, “Um, I brought dinner!”

Kali didn’t seem surprised by the new member of the conversation. In fact, at Doc’s words, she calmly met his eyes and replied, “Frank, we have more concerns than dinner.”

“Ah, right. Sorry.” Doc glanced over at Candace and mouthed, _What’s going on?_

The bear hybrid just smiled wider and turned around to address their agitated leader. “Go easy on him, Kali. Frank’s been working hard. I don’t think he’s had time to meet our guests.”

“Guests?” Doc exclaimed. His wings puffed up in surprise: an unfortunate side effect of the animal instincts buried in his genes. “But the barrier-”

“Is gone,” Kali answered. “All thanks to a group of soldiers who are either geniuses who knew exactly what they were doing, or very, very lucky. And no one’s that lucky.”

“But…” Doc paused. “That’s great! We can all finally leave!”

Kali just glared back down at her notes. “You’re worried they were sent by Felix, aren’t you?” Grant spoke in her silence.

The leopard hybrid growled. “These,” she picked up the papers, flicking them in the direction of her fellow hybrids, “are the notes taken after the interrogation sessions with each of the intruders. Now most of them,” she flipped through the bundle, “are pointless. None of these idiots seemed able to answer their own name, let alone anything as complex as how they removed the PAFC. But there was one – the second one we interviewed – who knew more than any Chorus soldier should.”

Grant looked contemplative. “Are you talking about the ‘Freelancer level’ comment?”

“Bingo,” Kali said.

Something cold swept down Doc’s spine, tingling the back of his neck and sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“What!” he spluttered. “Did you say Freelancer?”

Grant nodded. “Are they some of your old colleagues?” he asked Kali.

The glare she threw in response implied that curiosity was going to kill the gorilla hybrid if he didn’t shut up soon. “No,” she answered and turned her slitted eyes to Doc, “Why are you curious about Freelancers, Frank?”

“W-well,” _Good going, Frank_ , he thought, _Way to get on the homicidal soldier lady’s backside_.

“No reason. I thought they might be with this Felix, you know?”

Kali’s expression relaxed one muscle at a time. “I see,” she said. “It’s definitely for the best you don’t know, because if it came out that someone here was actually a spy for the Freelancer Project I would be very unhappy. If the they knew about the research in this facility we would all be much closer to our deaths.”

“Is the threat really that dangerous?” Candace asked, an edge of fear audible in her tone.

“Yes,” Kali said. “And if these soldiers really are Freelancer agents, then they are as well. Or course, if they are Freelancer agents then nothing we can do will convince them to tell us anything.”

A soft silence spread through the room, marked only by the occasional smack of Kali’s tail against her chair. All the references to Project Freelancer were making Doc feel sick. He thought that had all been left behind when the Reds and Blues raced off after Carolina. Yet here he was in a facility on a new, strange planet, and the blasted Project was still appearing in places it shouldn’t be.

Doc’s brooding stopped when Candace pipped up with some amusement. “But did you really have trouble getting their names?” she asked.

Kali turned her glare to the bear hybrid, “What do you know?”

Candace grinned, seemingly ignoring the murderous intent coming from the small woman at the desk, “Apparently food is a better incentive to talk than torture.”

“Really?” Grant asked, “Then who are they?”

“Let’s see,” Candace tapped her chin, “They didn’t all tell me, but there was Sarge, Caboose, Donut; their names were kind of funny… Who else… Um… Oh yeah, there was a Dick Simmons. I remember his because, seriously, who names their kid ‘Dick’ these days?”

Doc felt his mouth go dry. Apparently, Project Freelancer wasn’t the only thing appearing in places it shouldn’t be. “No,” he whispered.

“Do these names mean something to you, Frank?” Kali snapped. Doc nodded slowly.

Doc nodded slowly. “They’re my friends, the ones I told you about. But you don’t have to worry, they’re not a threat.” Suddenly, a sick swell spread through his stomach as another thought occurred to him. “Wait, have they had any water?”

“They’ve been locked up for four days, so yes,” she said.

Anger, the type that still lingered in Doc’s chest like an autograph from O’Malley, rose. “B-but,” he spluttered, “You don’t know how they’ll react-”

Kali lifted an eyebrow, the simple gesture enough to cut the duck hybrid’s building tirade. “What would you have done, Frank?” she spoke softly. “They demanded it.”

Doc took a large gulp of air, and then another, desperately calming his racing heart. Getting worked up had never done him good in the past, and it certainly wouldn’t help here.

“You’re right,” he replied. “I don’t know what I would have done.” Still, when it came to the Reds and Blues, it was better to be safe than sorry. “Have they had a reaction yet?”

“Nothing major,” Candace answered. “A couple of headaches and coughs. The dark-skinned man, the one with aqua armour-”

“Tucker,” Candace shot a confused look at Doc. “His name’s Tucker,” the medic explained.

“Right, Tucker,” the ex-student continued. “He and the other man in that room refused to tell me their names.”

“Was that other man the one with the yellow and grey armour?” Kali interjected.

“Ah, yes.”

“Figures,” Kali grumbled, and Doc wondered what had happened between her and Wash.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Candace was put off by all the interruptions, “Tucker was complaining of a bad headache when I went in with dinner, and Mr Simmons looked out of it. So… it could be a start.”

Maybe it was being trapped in a dome with three strangers, but a certain gloom had settled over Doc’s mind these last few months that played up again now when he considered the men who had been such a major part of his life for years. Sarge grumpily giving orders to Simmons while the latter hung off his every word. Donut using the down time to think of new cake recipes. Grif stubbornly ignoring all three of them. Wash and Tucker bickering over the new object of the teal soldier’s interest, while Caboose wandered the base, picking up every rock and flower in limitless fascination.

Doc just hoped that what they were about to become wouldn’t change any of it.

 

* * *

 

“Dude, would you stop rubbing against the wall. I know you’re a bitch, but you don’t have to be in heat as well.”

“Ha ha, very funny. My back’s on fire, and you’re making jokes.”

“Oh,” Donut cried, cutting off another round of Grif-Simmons flirting, “I could help if we were in Armonia. I have an excellent moisturiser in my cosmetics bag. Water-based, and it kept all my extremities from being sore in Blood Gulch. Want to see when we get back?”

“No!”

“Okay then,” the lightish-red private shrugged, “but you really should take care. The skin is the largest organ in the body, you don’t want that failing!”

Grif sighed and shuffled upright in the steel cot, “As much as I can’t believe I’m saying this, Donut’s right. You’ve been complaining nonstop since we got shoved in this stupid cell. First the coughing, then sore muscles. What’s wrong with you now?”

Simmons threw his head backwards, hitting it against the plaster, “I don’t know. It feels like I have a crap-ton of needles stuck in my back. I hate needles. I don’t even really like hospitals! What if they find out I’m sick and take me to a hospital!”

“Okay, okay,” Grif rolled his eyes, “calm down. The nearest hospital is in Armonia, and we’ve been locked in a fucking cell for days. You think they’re going to carry you to Armonia for some back pain? Yeah right. Now take off your armour.”

“What!” Simmons cry was drowned by Donut’s squealing.

“Finally! I knew it was coming!” the lieutenant danced in joy, an awkward feat in almost full body gear. “I’m surprised you’re so upfront! But never mind me, just pretend I’m not here!”

“I said to take off your armour, not fucking strip!” Grif’s voice cracked an octave above its usual tone. “Don’t turn me into a damn pervert!”

“And why would I-” Simmons’ response was interrupted by his sixth coughing fit of the day. “Wh- Why-“ deep breath. “Why would I take off my armour?”

Donut had rushed to Simmons’ aid during his fit, while Grif had stumbled towards his hunched maroon friend, left hand lifted uncomfortably as if wanting to provide relief, but with no idea how. Now it was raised to rub behind Grif’s neck, “You said your back hurts, dumbass. Our friendly kidnappers might have removed our helmets, but wearing the rest of that armour isn’t going to help.”

“Grif has a point,” Donut said. “You’re sick, so we need to perform a full medical examination. Back, throat, ears. You know, a proper exhaustive cavity investigation. I always find they do me wonders! I‘m sure if Doc was here he’d say the same thing.”

“Uh,” Simmons, still breathing raggedly, glanced desperately at Grif, “I don’t know if I’m comfortable taking medical advice from Doc.”

“Just take off the damn armour,” the orange captain grumbled, kneeling down and tugging at the seals which held the marron plating to Simmons’ lower arm.

With Grif’s and Donut’s help, most of Simmons’ armour was soon lying in a pile in the cell’s corner. Dressed from waist up in only the skintight under-suit, Simmons stumbled to his feet. The posts of the steel cot provided a crutch for his shaking legs as he called out to his two teammates standing silently behind him, “Hey, you assholes see anything.”

“Ah, yeah,” Donut’s voice was uncharacteristically subdued, “there is something. I don’t know what it is, though.”

“What do you mean you don’t know what it is!”

Donut just shook his head. A subdued voice in his mind wondered if one could find replacement clothes in an abandoned military facility. There was definitely no chance Simmons was going to salvage that under-suit. The entire backside of the skintight garment, from collar to tailbone, was ruined permanently. The black synthetic had shredded under the force of the inch-and-a-half long spikes growing by the hundreds out of the Dutch-Irish man’s back. The tips were light, becoming darker as they neared Simmons’ skin; either due to natural colouration, or the slow trickles of red blood that seeped out from their inflamed roots. A closer inspection of Simmons without his helmet revealed that the spikes grew past the under-suit’s collar, spreading up the backside of his neck and tangling with his red curls.

"Dude,” Grif’s voice cracked, “you might want to rethink your opinion of needles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! This is now actually a hybrid fic!
> 
> So if you're confused, the mixes are MallardDuck!Doc and Hedgehog!Simmons. Also Gorilla!Grant, Bear!Candace, and BlackLeopard!Kali.


End file.
